Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Carnegie Center friend, accomplished poet, former intern and upcoming CCLL instructor, Robert Campbell has agreed to share some of his work. Enjoy!

Lots

One wants to become a headlight

in the desert of impalpable dark.

What becomes of the neophyte,

flesh against flesh?They said to park

in the desert of impalpable dark,

the body a thing that fits cleanly between

flesh, against flesh.They said to park

there, on the left.They want to entwine

the body, a thing that fits cleanly in between.

One wants to glow behind the orange tape,

there, on the left.One wants to entwine

knower and known from lots six and eight.

One wants to glow behind the orange tape.

Meanwhile, they want you sexless as concrete,

nowhere, a no one from lots six and eight,

light licking shadow, yellow lines laid neat.

Skillet, Oil, Meat

My father’s mother, with those handsthat, at thirteen, hauled wood,killed pigs, washed linens, palingfrom the bleach, would set herselfto tilt skillets full of oil,a circle of perfect darkwider than a growing bulb,smaller than the mouth’s hole.

She pruned hibiscus leavesin her jet-black bathing suit,sported the wig not for lack of hair,but because, at the end of the day,she could lay back, liftthe cumbersome load of curlsonto the manikin head staring backfrom her vanity and sleep lighter,tresses breathing in, out withthe bedroom window’s draft.

She stretched a bronzed armover the cement pots, tiltedthe pitcher, watched watertremble off the top,then, to nourish the animate, pulledchicken gizzards for the frying pan.

Hot oil rattles meatalmost as hard as grief.The sizzle is not unlikethe dissolving body, bonescaved in under the weight of spirit,smoke from burnt flesh, stygian hiss,opaque when cooled, usefulfor cornbread, pies, beans.